


Detective R. J. Lupin and The Case Of The Convoluted Narrative

by Tozette



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Crack, M/M, Private Detective Remus Lupin, Still full of magic though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5550509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tozette/pseuds/Tozette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Malfoy," drawls Sirius, unimpressed.</p><p>Ah, thinks Remus. That's where he knows him from. The society pages.</p><p>"We <i>are</i> a detective agency," Remus says. He's checked: legally, he can call two people and a closet-sized office an 'agency'. A <i>starving</i> agency, if they don't get some work soon. He toes Sirius gently. He hasn't said anything awful yet, but it's Sirius and there's always time.</p><p>Lucius Malfoy looks around their closet as though he very much doubts that. "So I see," he says, in a tone that indicates that he very much does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detective R. J. Lupin and The Case Of The Convoluted Narrative

Offices on Diagon Alley are so expensive these days that they may as well be made of solid diamond and rubbed with gold leaf and rolled in bloody unicorn dung. Offices _off_ Diagon Alley, on the other hand, are very nearly within Remus J Lupin's price range.

"I wouldn't call it an 'office', 'zactly," James says from his indolent sprawl upon the couch jammed awkwardly against the wall. "Maybe a closet."

Remus shoots him a foul, foul look, but returns to the books. Which books? _The_ books. The ones with the numbers in. The numbers crawl before Remus's eyes, performing wandless magic tricks. _Now you see me - now you don't!_

(The numbers represent the many galleons that do not reside in Remus's bank account.)

"Hey," says Sirius, flicking a rubber band at James's head. "Respect the closet. Our bread and butter, this is."

He is flat on his back, making a dust angel on the floor in his leather jacket with his legs propped up against the arm of the couch. Remus would make him get up, but James is right: the office is tiny. There isn't really much other space for him.

"It's a lovely closet," James allows. "It's very nearly a _walk in_ closet, and you know I'd never say that lightly." He pats the water stained wallpaper gently, familiarly - and quite as though he never wonders when it's going to unstick from the wall and consume his face.

It might.

They never _did_ discover what happened to the last tenant, and the rent is awfully cheap...

It's like this: there was one point in Remus's life during which he'd fondly dreamed of being employed as a librarian, or an archivist - or perhaps one of those mild, scholarly types who are allowed to give tours of historical sites to curious young people, describing the significance of events and opening their minds to the endless past and future of the world around them.

Unfortunately, it turns out that a werewolf with four walls and three square meals is a self-employed werewolf, and self-employed werewolves do not become archivists, inspiring tour guides to historically significant locations _or_ scatterbrained librarians. Remus is still not entirely sold on the idea that they become private detectives, either, but Sirius is very persuasive.

 _Very persuasive_ , Sirius.

(To be fair to Sirius, it turns out that disowned scions of ancient and noble bloodlines are also not very employable in the long term.)

"Moony, my good chap," bellows Sirius from the floor, "how are The Books looking?"

Remus eyes them. "They're... looking," he mutters.

"Uh-oh," says James. "Time to sell Padfoot to the workhouse?" he wonders, inching up on his elbows to see over Remus's shoulder. He squints.

Sirius kicks him. "Piss off. Don't you have a wife to bother now? Putting up with you has to be her job now, surely?"

"She's working," James says morosely. "She's got a big job coming up. Lots of pay off, but you know how she gets."

Sirius clicks his tongue as though he cannot think of anything sadder than a spouse who works hard and long hours and brings home lots of actual money to actually pay their actual bills with. Remus, still trying to figure out where he would pull some of the numbers from to make some of the others come out even, gives Sirius a very unimpressed look. He is ignored with the ease of long practice.

"And you, faffing about annoying us," Sirius says in a tone of boundless sincerity and sympathy, "the shiftless vagabond of her heart." He clutches one of James's hands tightly, as though that will be the thing that sells his act.

"A love story for the ages," Remus murmurs, tapping his nails on the desk. "Padfoot," he says then, when James squawks and flails his long limbs, affronted by Remus's flippancy.

"Moony," says Sirius right back, rolling a little to meet his eyes.

"We're skint," Remus admits.

"...Ah," says Sirius.

There's a careful and cautious silence.

"Well!" James declares, breaking it with enthusiasm. He rolls off the couch and immediately trips over Sirius's legs and into the back of Remus's chair, but he catches and rights himself, adjusts his glasses and pats the chair's back as though it is a very good dog. "That's awkward. I think I'll be off! Best of luck, seasons greetings and all that-"

"It's not Christmas," Sirius interjects, puzzled.

The door slams behind James.

"Er," says Remus.

"Right," says Sirius.

They stare at each other for a few moments. Remus opens his mouth to reiterate how very much money they don't have.

The door flies open with a crash and both men flinch and turn toward the sound.

There is a figure silhouetted in the doorway, a looming shadow wrapped in a travelling cloak. There's a distinct impression of height and broad shoulders, and then the soft tap of dragonhide boots as he steps inside their clo- office. Their _office_.

"Detective R J Lupin," says the man, pulling his cloak away from his face. The man is blond, with grey eyes and a face more characterised by expression than feature. The overall impression, Remus decides, is _hauteur._ He thinks he knows this man, but he can't place him. "I find myself in need of a private detective."

"Malfoy," drawls Sirius, unimpressed.

Ah, thinks Remus. That's where he knows him from. The society pages.

"We _are_ a detective agency," Remus says. He's checked: legally, he can call two people and a closet-sized office an 'agency'. A _starving_ agency, if they don't get some work soon. He toes Sirius gently. He hasn't said anything awful yet, but it's Sirius and there's always time.

Lucius Malfoy looks around their closet as though he very much doubts that. "So I see," he says, in a tone that indicates that he very much does not. Sirius scowls, and doesn't get off the floor for him.

"What can we do for you?" Remus asks, forcing a smile.

Lucius sniffs disdainfully, but after a second's hesitation, he begins. Poor bastard, Remus thinks, hiding his amusement. He must really be desperate, coming to _them_.

In the end, Malfoy's request is shockingly simple, and Remus finds himself almost bemused as he nods along and takes notes.

It's the same job every private detective does over and over. (And over.)

Proof of adultery.

" _Naughty_ cousin Cissy," muses Sirius thoughtfully once he's left, staring at the ceiling.

* * *

"If I was married to that git, I'd probably find someone else to have it off with, too," Sirius mutters when they commence the mandatory stakeout of Narcissa Malfoy's London townhouse. This opinion has not stopped him from clamouring loudly for possession of the camera.

They find themselves - which is to say that they very specifically place themselves - under a disillusionment charm on the footpath across from the house. The street is reasonably quiet, situated in an expensive neighbourhood: narrow streets, low walls of white pillars and timbre or cast iron inserts, pretentious plastered brick and surprising little dashes of greenery spilling around the edges. The house they're watching has only one entrance and exit, and for reasons that they suspect have a lot to do with the prevention of surprise interruptions it is not hooked up to the Floo Network. That makes it an easy target for keeping an eye on.

"She did marry him. That was her decision," Remus says, in the tone that says he's trying to reserve judgement during the very process of judging her. It's not that he disapproves of sex in general, or sex out of wedlock in specific. Hes not even really sure he disapproves of sex out of wedlock _while married,_ although he'd probably have to think about that one a little more. He just disapproves of _lying_ about it.

Which is an ironic thing for a private detective. People lying about who they're getting off with pays most of his bills.

"She married him for the name. Black family's dirt," Sirius shrugs, and leans closer to Remus. "Malfoys're..." he pauses, contemplating. "Actually they're dirt, too, but people don't notice as much." He sounds completely at ease with this damning assessment of his relatives and a hefty swath of their social circle.

They're leaning against the low wall of the building opposite the townhouse, Sirius with his elbows propped on the top of the wall and his fingers flexing to get the stiffness out of them. The rain is barely a drizzle but the day is cold and Remus can feel the very human heat radiating from Sirius next to him. After a moment, he slides a hand onto Sirius's forearm and follows the line of it down to his fingers.

"Your fingers are like ice blocks," Sirius informs him, but it doesn't stop him from tucking them between his own, carefully covering as much surface area as possible with his own hands.

"It happens to be cold," Remus tells him loftily, although he's still keeping a wary eye out for any actual action.

"Not _this_ cold," Sirius says, squeezing his hand.

He tilts his head back a little, squinting briefly at the sky. "I'm just saying, it wasn't what you'd call a love match. Malfoy family's skint -"

"Rubbish," Remus interrupts incredulously.

"Not _you-and-me_ -skint," Sirius rolls his eyes. "Rich people skint. You know - 'woe, my hideously ugly ancestral estate is a tax sucking behemoth attached to my throat and its upkeep is driving my family into genteel decay'."

"Oddly specific," murmurs Remus.

"...or so I've heard," Sirius tacks on unconvincingly. He coughs.

"Fascinating things, rumours," Remus says, quite cheerfully.

"Undoubtedly." Sirius flashes him a smile, quick and surprising in his handsome face.

Remus pauses to remember his line of thought. Sirius's face, it must be noted, occasionally has this impact upon him. "You're saying that Malfoy married her for the money and she married him for the reputation," he summarises thoughtfully.

Sirius shrugs again, and this time he looks a bit more uncomfortable. "She's all- well, you know. Bit of distance from the old name never hurt. There's Andy -"

They both know Remus thinks Andromeda's lovely - she and Ted have them over for dinner every other week, and he gets to listen to her have it out with Sirius about what does and does not constitute proper breakfast food. She's not what you'd call pureblood high society anymore though, so he just hums in acknowledgement.

"- and Bellatrix -"

"Lunatic," Remus says, because at this point it's a bit obligatory. There's not even much malice in his voice; it's more like a trained verbal tick.

Sirius just nods - seriously, of course. "And me, obviously. Disinherited and run off with another bloke to be a detective," he grins at Remus's raised eyebrow. "Shame, that."

"A true tragedy," Remus returns, and then he blinks and jams his elbow into Sirius's ribs.

"Ow," Sirius whines, even as he brings his camera up. There's a reassuring _click-whir, click-whir_ , but it doesn't stop Sirius's mouth racing ahead. "There's no bloody way." He starts as he means to go on: incredulous and faintly affronted. "She _can't_ be-"

Remus, too, is a little surprised. "Well... he's a pureblood, technically," he says.

"That's about _all_ he is. He's lucky this is a surveillance job or I'd wring his lying little-"

"Sirius."

He snaps a last photograph and whirls. " _Wormtail_ , Moony."

"I can see him, Sirius." Although he's not sure he believes what he's seeing.

"Wormtail," Sirius says uncertainly. "She can't possibly be - it's _Wormtail_." He makes a face like this is the worst news he's ever received.

"Yes," says Remus, "I know."

"Lucius is an arse, but he's at least _fit_. More's the pity," he adds, scrunching up his nose.

Remus looks sideways at Sirius for a moment, and wonders if he's insecure enough to be concerned about competition from _Lucius bloody Malfoy_ , of all people. After a pause, he shrugs. "Perhaps she likes him?" He's a bit dubious about that himself.

"Yeah," scoffs Sirius. " _That's_ likely."

They wait in the cold, leaning back against the wall, comfortably covered by disillusionment spells. It almost a half hour later that Sirius shifts on his toes.

"I'm going to go look through their rubbish," he says cheerfully.

Remus makes a face. "Charming," he murmurs, already knowing it's a good idea. But there is already a huge, ragged black dog where once Sirius stood.

Padfoot trots off to dig through the bins. As soon as he starts making a mess, the disillusionment charm begins wearing off, allowing people to see him, but they still aren't paying very much attention. It's almost fifteen minutes before somebody thinks to try shooing him off, and Padfoot snaps playfully at the old man's hand and bolts back across the road toward Remus.

"If you don't drop that right this second," Remus says, feeling queasy, "I'm never kissing you again."

Padfoot drops what is very obviously, and very disgustingly, a used prophylactic at Remus's feet. To be absolutely specific, it is clearly one of Wortworth's Prophylactic Sheaths for the Prevention of the Clappe and Other Such Dystemper. There is a very distinct monogram on the sheath's shiny skin, one with which Remus is unfortunately familiar.

"I might never kiss you again anyway," Remus admits. He's a werewolf, which means he's literally eaten pieces of himself on a rough full moon night. This? This seems worse. _Especially_ if it's Wormtail's.

Padfoot whines, ears drooping.

"Yeah," Sirius says, disillusioned and man-shaped again several seconds later, "I'm going to need to brush my teeth with balefire. But, hey! At least there's that problem solved."

Technically this is true: secret meetings with male friends in her private home, not hooked up to the Floo, used and discarded contraceptives in the rubbish bins, the furtive look Wormtail was wearing when he entered... they all add up to a distinct picture, and frankly Remus is on the verge of agreeing, taking his big old camera back from Sirius and snapping the photos they'll need of Wormtail leaving the townhouse, maybe edging closer and getting a money shot through a window.

But Remus cannot help his hesitation. "You don' think it's... a bit neat?" he wonders, licking his teeth uncertainly. The full moon isn't that far away, and he's always a little on edge around that time, but there's a sick clench to his guts and a prickle on his skin that makes him want to sit up and pay attention.

Sirius looks at him, eyebrows raised. "Neat?" he asks, like he's never heard that word before. Given the state of their apartment, Remus can't say he'd be surprised.

"Yes, neat. We arrived the day following Malfoy's visit and immediately stumble upon proof of Narcissa's guilt. It seems... you know - a bit convenient. Easy."

" _Easy_ , he says." Sirius claps him on the shoulder one-handed. He is bigger, hands warm and rough. Remus sags forward with the unconscious force of it. "Spoken like a man who didn't just have a used condom in his mouth," he says brightly.

"Eugh," says Remus. "That," he says, with a twist to his lips that may never go away, "is your own fault."

Sirius, though, is rubbing his forehead, eyes narrowed. "It doesn't smell quite right," he admits slowly, toeing the sheath on the footpath with distaste. "Wormtail, I mean. We shared space for a long bloody time. You'd think I'd know his smell."

"The smell of his... er, semen?" Remus asks, raising his eyebrows.

Sirius snorts. "What do you think he smelled like when he was fifteen?"

Remus has never been gladder that his senses only get really out of control just before the full moon. His appetite has collapsed in on itself and crawled away to die as it is. He tries to put it out of his head. "It won't hurt to investigate a little more," he decides.

Sirius's lips curve, narrow and inviting, and it is tempting - but Remus _so_ knows where they've been.

* * *

"I'm not going to ask," says Remus, when Sirius beams and presents him with a slightly dog-breath-smelling copy of the Malfoys' engagement contract. It's very crumpled in one corner, but still perfectly legible.

He _could_ ask, but he's made the executive decision not to, as he has so many times in the past. If Remus knows how Sirius got his hands on this, he might feel obligated to do something about it.

He reads it, though, while Sirius curls up on the couch, propping his feet against one wall to accommodate his long body. Remus leaves him to nap. Asking Sirius to go through a contract would be like combing out knots with a phial full of balefire. Yes, the knots would be gone, but at what cost?

('At what cost?' is the inevitable question when faced with Sirius's particular brand of recalcitrance. He's seen it on faces ranging from Regulus's to McGonagall's, that resigned contemplation: _I can get him to do it_ , flashes behind the victim's eyes, _but at what cost_?)

Remus doesn't enjoy going through the contract, but he suspects he'd enjoy putting out fires in their office even less. It doesn't take as long as he fears, anyway, and when he finds it he smacks Sirius a little too hard on one arm.

"Spousal abuse!" Sirius bellows, jerking awake with flailing limbs.

Remus flicks his ear for good measure, and Sirius cradles it with one hand and shoots him an intensely betrayed look. "Ow."

"Look at this," he instructs, and Sirius leans over his shoulder to peer at the parchment. There's a moment where he murmurs under his breath as he reads carefully, and Remus can feel the soft puff of his breath against the shell of his ear. He shivers a little, but mostly he's distracted by their find.

"She forfeits her dowry in case of divorce due to adultery," Sirius muses thoughtfully.

"You said the Malfoys're having money troubles, didn't you?" Remus asks, flicking his gaze sideways at Sirius.

"I did indeed. That explains the match, but he has access to the Black family vaults through her -"

"Really?"

"Well. Limited access," Sirius shrugs. "Every heir is disowned, married out or in jail at this point."

"Hmm. So he divorces her out of spite to drag her reputation through the mud?" Remus wonders, tapping his fingers on the table.

Sirius frowns. "It's his reputation, too. It's not going to look good for him if she's caught out with another bloke. _Especially_ if it's Wormtail, eugh."

"So, what then? Even if he can prove she's committing adultery, divorcing her brings him nothing but -"

There's a _whoosh_ and a cry as an owl swoops in through the window - which has been, until right now, closed - and it shifts its feathers in shuddery avian delight at the warmer temperature indoors. It circles once, soft feathers quiet, and then lands upon Remus's desk.

After a moment of polite owlish staring, it sticks out one leg. "Hoot."

"Thanks," says Remus cautiously, and he reaches out to grab the note attached to its leg.

"Hoot, hoot," murmurs the owl, nibbling gently at his finger before it takes off again.

"I could have sworn that window was closed," Sirius mutters.

"There's a charm," says Remus, unfolding the note.

"Is there? Merlin, as long as Mother never finds out-"

"Padfoot, look."

 _This is an anonymous tip_ , reads the note in clear, rounded handwriting. _Lucius Malfoy is having an affair with Mme Zabini. She will be leaving his house by six. - Anonymous._

There's a moment of silence and Sirius's eyebrows rise. "Are you serious," he mutters.

"No," says Remus, beaming, because Sirius almost never uses that word - for obvious reasons - and it's a _delight_ when he does, "you are."

"He signed his name 'Anonymous'," says Sirius, as though he's much more offended by this than by the terrible pun on his name.

"It looks like a woman's writing, actually."

"So does yours, Moony."

Remus rolls his eyes.

"Do we check it?" Sirius wonders, peering more closely at the scrap of parchment it's been written on.

Remus hesitates. "Does anybody know you've got the marriage contract?"

Sirius frowns. "No." A pause. "Well, James? Might've mentioned it when I was borrowing an, er, _item_ from him."

The Cloak, right.

Well, James isn't 'anybody', he's _James_ , so Remus just nods. The three of them have so much dirt on one another there's no point keeping score anymore.

"It _would_ give him a motive for setting her up," he points out slowly.

"I've met Zabini. He'd be mad to have her - she's already had four husbands die 'mysteriously' and leave her an enormous pile of galleons," Sirius says, scrunching up his nose. "Isn't Malfoy supposed to be smart?"

"Evidently not," Remus says. "But I'm sure she wouldn't have _him_ without the money from Narcissa's dowry." Then he stands up and collects his coat. "Let's go have a look at Malfoy Manor, shall we?"

Sirius beams.

**Author's Note:**

> If there was anything here you particularly liked, let me know about it in the comments. :)


End file.
